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ME, — AN' WAR GOIN' ON 



Me —An' War Goin' On 



By 



JOHN PALMER CUMMING 




THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING CO. 

BOSTON 






Copyright 1921 

by 

THE CORNHILL PUBLISHING CO. 



JAN 27 1922 



©GU653682 



Srotrateo 
Sin tf|* JJala of 1 wtrrgrar 

FOR WHOM EVERY LINE OF IT WAS WRITTEN 

WITH NO THOUGHT OF FAME 

LAURELS OR FORTUNE 

IN THE GREAT BIG SHOW WHERE EMOTIONS 

SWEPT US INTO COMRADESHIPS 

THAT WILL NEVER 

DIE 

J. P. C. 
Egypt, 1921 



PREFACE 

This book owes its appearance in print to the friends 
these verses have already made. The pleasant avocation 
of the author in compiling them, and the little thrill he 
will feel when the first bound copy is handed him will be 
his reward. His files are already filled with letters of 
appreciation. 

He expects nothing more of its appearance than that 
of linking all of the old friends together and of giving 
their favorite verses a wider audience. 

J. P. C. 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Dedication v 

Preface vii 

• Me, — an' War Goin' On i 

Up with the Rations 4 

From France 7 

Beyond the Hills of France 9 

The Song of the Soldier u 

October in the Lines 13 

The Little Sam Browne 14 

A Toast before "Going Up" 15 

A Solution 16 

C'est La Guerre 17 

The Last Toast 18 

War Lovers 19 

To Slim Jim 20 

No Man's Land 21 

At the Doughboy Ring 22 

When the Orders Come 23 

June 13, 1919: The Final Edition of the A. E. F. Num- 
ber of "The Stars and Stripes" 25 

Joan of Arc 26 

Heroes 27 

Daybreak at LaValbonne 28 

Smitty's Christmas at LaValbonne 29 

In Parting 31 

Homeward Bound 32 

From France 33 

In the Aftermath 34 

Trouble 35 

The Pals of Yesteryear 36 

Christmas Over There t>7 

The Defeated Pact 39 

L'Automne 41 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

You Tell 'im 42 

The Scattered Army 43 

Eb's French Wife 45 

Firelight and Sh adders 47 

Thirty 50 

The Stenographer 51 

The Call of the Better Self 52 

An Episode , 53 

Monopolistic Fancies 54 

Aftermath 55 

S.O.S. Joe 56 

Burnt Fingers 57 

Lilac Time 58 

Spring's Usual 59 

L'Envoi 60 



ME, — AN' WAR GOIN' ON 



ME— AN' WAR GOIN' ON 

Me, — a-leadin' a column! 

Me! — that women have loved! 

Me, — a-leadin' a column o' Yanks, and tracin' Her name 

in the Stars! 
Me, — that ain't seen the purple hills before, all mixed 

in the skies 
With the gray dawn meltin' to azure there; 
Me, — that ain't a poet, growin' poetic; 
An' the flash o' the guns on the skyline; 
An' red wine, — an' France, — 
An' Me laughin', — an' War! 
An' Slim Jim singin' a song! 
An' a lop-eared mule a-kickin' a limber 
An' axles, 'thout no grease, hollerin' Maggie at me! 
Me, — a-leadin' a column — 
An' War goin' on! 

Mornin' comin' 
An' Me a-leadin' a column 
Along o' them from the College, 
Along o' them from the streets, 
An' them as had mothers 'at sp'iled 'em, 
An' them as hadn't, — 
All a lovin' names in the stars, — 
An' Slim Jim singin' a song, — 
An' folks to home watchin' 'em, too, 
An' Maggie, that never had loved me, lovin' me now, 
An' thinkin' and cryin' for Me! 

For Me that loved Maggie, that never loved Me till 
now, — 

With War goin' on! 

i 



Mornin' comin' 
An' Me a-leadin' a column, — 
An' a town in the valley 
'Round the bend in the road, 
An' Ginger strainin' his neck 
An' thinkin' o' Picket Lines, — 
An' Me an' the rest o' them thinkin' o' Home, 
An' Coney just startin' to close at Home, — 
An' Maggie mashed in the crowd, 
An' Me a-leadin' a column, 
An' War goin' on! 

Me that hollered for water 

With a splinter of Hell in my side; 

Me that have laid in the sun a-cursin' the beggars and 

stretchers 
As looked like they'd never a-come; 
Me that found God with the gas at my throat 
An' raved like a madman for Maggie, 
An' wanted a wooden cross over me! 
Me, — an Slim Jim back o' me singin' 
An' tracin' a name in the fade of the stars! 

Me, knowin' that some'll be ridin' that's walkin', tonight, — 
Knowin' that some'll never see Broadway again, 
An' red wine, 
An' Little Italy, 
An' Maggies like mine, — 
Me, a-murmurin' a prayer for Maggie, 
An' stoppin' to laugh at Slim, 

An' shoutin' " To the right o' the road for the swoy-zant- 
canze," 

2 



Them baby French guns that raises such Hell up the line, 
An' marchin', — 
An' marchin' by night, 
An' sleepin' by day, 
An' France, — 
An' Red Wine, 
An' Me thinkin' o' Home, 
Me, — a-leadin' a column, — 
An' War goin'on! 



UP WITH THE RATIONS 

Hovering of darkness and coverlids of dawn, — 

And you're Up with the Rations, where the boys have 

gone! 
Creaking and crying the limbers rattle on, — 
You're up with the rations, — but the roads are gone! 

" Which is the road to take? " 
" How many miles to make? " 
Never a nerve to shake, — 
On with the game! 

Shriek of the whining shell, 
Bursting with flares of Hell, 
Lighting the road so well, — 
Thank it the same! 

Crooning of aeroplane, hovering o'er you, — 
(Mind you, the Infantry made it before you!) 

" Come, build this bridge again! 
Cut through this field of grain! 
Work and forget the rain! 
Hustle those men! " 



" Here, take this overcoat, 
Cover that wounded blote, 
Pull it around his throat, 
He 's kickin' in! " 



How the mud oozes and clings to the ration cart, 
Clinches the rims of the tires till they hold! 
How the mules fret at the load when the wagons start, 
Stretching their traces from lashes that scold! 

" God! What a fierce barrage! " 
" There goes a team at large! " 
" Where is that transport, Sarge? — 
Finding a hole? " 

Never a chance to run for cover, — 
This is the way he puts them over: 

" Bring on that set o' spares! 
Pull off them murdered mares! 
Hitch on two other pairs! — 
And fix that pole! " 

" Now, one at a crack, as I give you the sign, 
Dig into her ribs and shoot for the line, 
Or find yourself drivin' a limber in Hell 
And ball up my dope on the drops o' the shell! " 

Close enough now for a shot from a gunner's nest 
To warn you that Fritz is sniping out there, — 
Close enough now for a whisper to give you rest 
To last you awhile with never a care. 

********* 
" Sir! Your rations are delivered! " 



Oh, it's welcome to the dawn, lad, 

When the night was long, 
For here's an empty cart, lad, 

That sings a lively song: 

Who would be part of the transport on a far-flung battle- 
line, 
With never a thrill of battle, with never a lip to whine? 

But, oh, there's a song in a limber 

That stirs to the blood, my lad, 
And swinging along with the rations 

Is never one half so bad, — 
For the glare and the gleam of a star shell 

And a teamster' 's gay " gid-dap " 
Hold enough of the life of a soldier 

For the blood of a nervy chap. 
And a lad lives close to his God, my lad, 

And, lo, his heart is true, 
For it takes a person of parts, my lad, 

To get the rations through. 



FROM FRANCE 

Oh, the road that led from your house back to mine, 

Kind of dusty, waiting road, 

Where the midnight fancies glowed, 

And the song I whistled showed 
I was young. 
Then the song that leapt from my heart up to thine, 

On that battered, lazy path, — 

As a kind of aftermath 

To the music of your laugh, — 
Was unsung. 

Though the years have flung their distance in between, 

Here's a counterpart as true 

Leading back to dreams of you 

With the same old hopes I knew 
When I dreamed; 
For I trudge a road in Flanders quite as green, 

Where the zephyrness of June 

Makes the purple beeches croon 

Till the whole world is atune 
As it seemed. 



There is just so much of comfort in a day, 
And no matter where it be, 
In the States or Normandy, 
Dusks will woo as tenderly 
From above. 



I can almost see you waiting, far away, 
Ah, then, let our hearts beguile, 
While He spares us, we can smile, 
We can wait and dream awhile, 
We can lovel 



BEYOND THE HILLS OF FRANCE 

If you but make the hill, 

You'll see the village street; 
The old deserted mill; 

The tiled red roofs that meet 

the glare and make it dim; 
The children with their faces at the window pane; 
The crone that stirs not to the sight of troops again, 
And barns with billets under them, 
And straw to rest a weary limb, — 
If you drive on until 
You've made the hill. 

If you but make the hill, 

You'll see the battle-line, — 
The shrubs and grasses still; 
The towns upon the Rhine; 

the lands beyond the stream 
That wait those conquered vandals and their empty peace; 
And driving farther on till second breaths may cease, 
While starshells fail to gleam, 
You'll find some bits of dream, — 
If you drive on until 
You've made the hill. 

If you but make the hill, 

You'll see the heights of Home; 
You'll hear the little rill 

That laughs through friendly loam 
and whispers to the grain; 
Then call of mocking bird and peckerwood will be 
As when their charms were all your boyish minstrelsy, — 

9 



And, ah, the Lover's Lane 
That calls two hearts again, 
If you drive on until 
You've made the hill. 



10 



THE SONG OF THE SOLDIER 

Take the very blood within me, 

Pour it in the carnaged gore, 
It can be no more the noble 

Than the gifts of those before. 
Oh, the pain that waits beyond me 

May be more than I can bear, 
But the heart that throbs within me 

Knows me eager for my share. 

There was laughter where my pathway led in days of long 

ago, 
And the coming generation, — they must find it even so; 
There were schools that I attended, shaded groves in 

which to stroll, 
And a just God dealt the measure by an old and ancient 

scroll; 
There were garlands by the wayside with their fragrance 

all for me; 
There were tender thoughts to woo me while my dreams 

were young and free; 
There were tender loves to cheer me, wondrous hopes in 

hours of ease, — 
To the coming generation we must leave a share of these! 

Bring the shriek of battle 'round me, 

Throw me headlong in the flame, 
I may tremble, weaken, cower, 

But I'll soldier just the same. 
Spare me! God, I could not ask it 

When the Cause is wholly Thine, 
All I ask of Thee is Courage 

And a goal beyond the line. 
ii 



There were cities builded for me, there were comforts 

never few, — 
And no threatening foreign tyrant shall make them less 

for you; 
There was all a dreamer envied, all a dreamer craved, 
And now a Freedom's Conquest calls that it be saved. 
We shall go with glory silent, not one voice to cheer, 
Not one friendly handclasp, not one falling tear; 
We can lay on Freedom's Altar only that which Freedom 

gave, 
Nor applause, nor tender partings will we need to keep us 

brave. 

This is the song of the soldier, 

Finding a voice in a pen, 
Lost, perhaps, in the millions 

Who champion the cause of men; 
This is the heart of the soldier, 

Wistful, longing and young 
There at the stern of a transport 

Wishing the song were sung, — 
Watching his Liberty Goddess 

Grow dim in the land behind 
And knowing the tug at his heartstrings 

Is meant for men of his kind. 
These are the dreams of the soldier 

Who prays heHl never forsake, 
And such are the dreams of millions 

Who yet follow in his wake. 



12 



OCTOBER IN THE LINES 

' Tis seldom that the guns are silent where we are, 
And yet, sometimes, they seem to pause for rest, 

And when they do, my fancies wander just as far 
As if it were October in our nest; 

As if the nest were built as we had planned it then, 
As if I shrugged my shoulders in the crowd, 

Brushed off the dying leaf and hustled in 
To find you humming, singing half-aloud 
And weaving wisps of dreams before the fire, — 
And waiting in our land of Heart's Desire. 

Few are the evenings of the red October sun 
That, dying out beyond the hills of France, 

Can yield the beauties of another one 

When Love and Lips and Autumn met by chance; 

Few are the golden glows within the dreamer's eye 
Not marred by splinters of the bursting shell 

Where wild hyenas of the air shriek through the sky 
So close they hiss one's name, and, nearer, tell 
The buried sins of long ago, and then, — 
Explode beyond, and miss — and leave us — Men! 

Ah, Love, tonight the red October leaf is down, 

A garb of fancy withered in the sun, 
As if the soul within the oak had shed her gown 

To clothe her figure with a sterner one. 
So does your soldier throw aside the dreamer's skein 

To be rewoven in some dusk with you, 
For fancy will be sweeter when it comes again 

And Love will know a cost to hold it true; 

And thus he goes, as one who knows he will 

Emerge a victor, — yet your dreamer still. 
13 



THE LITTLE SAM BROWNE 

The little Sam Browne is covered with mold, 

Its buckles of brass are green, 
And the little lieutenant, he feels so old 

As he fingers the belt unseen. 
Time was when the little Sam Browne was new 

And many a mademoiselle 
Fingered the trinket like maidens do 

And promised to love him well. 

" Now, you be true till I come," he said, 

And don't love any one else, 
Then off he marched at the column's head 

And little he thought of belts. 
Yet hearts that go soaring on Cupid's stair 

Must sooner or later come down, 
For, while he dreamed of the maidens fair, 

They dreamed of the little Sam Browne. 

Ay, faithful the little Sam Browne will rust 

There in its dingy room, — 
Its leather all cracked and covered with dust, — 

Waiting a trashman's doom, 
While civvied the little lieutenant frowns 

Over Love's empty brim, 
For though they remember the little Sam Brownes 

They've all forgotten him. 



14 



A TOAST BEFORE " GOING UP " 

I hear a glass that tinkles, touching mine, 
A fancy dances to my breast, 

And drowns my lips in giddy, ruddy wine 
Till Youth knows not of Placid Rest! 

Oh, give me but the tinsel and the gauze, 
A woman's kiss, a whispered sigh, 

Some little bits of Love and Life, because 
Tomorrow needs its men to die! 



15 



A SOLUTION 

If every one that wrote a book 

About the bloomin' War 
Would come across and buy a book 

As books are written for, — 
Then all of them that wrote a book 

Would make at least one sale 
And publishers would not go broke 

Nor writers land in jail. 



16 



C'EST LA GUERRE 

I would I were through with the Army 
And back there on Broadway again 
With a pinch-back suit for the wearing 
And swinging an imported cane, 
Where the great white lights 
And the open nights 
Are waiting the men from the Aisne. 

But could I be through with the Army 

To wander old Broadway alone 

While the cursing shriek of the shrapnel 

Is teaching no man to condone, 

While the wild, weird nights 

And the signal lights 

Can show me a task of my own. 

Ah, sad enough days in the Army 

Will come when we wander away 
With a million roads for the taking 
And never a laddie to stay, 
When pals of these nights 
Drift off in those lights 
To age and to dream of today. 



17 



THE LAST TOAST 

Goodbye to this blithe quaff of wine, 
The last to pass these lips of mine; 
To gay midinettes; estaminets; 
To old chateaus and soldier days; 
To comradeships and comrade hands 
That did their bit in foreign lands; 
To ribboned roads of stately elms 
That brought us dreams of other realms; 
To those that charged a franc too much 
And those that never thought of such; 
To billets, barns and muddy streets; 
To purple hills and cool retreats; 
To ivy on the old 6glise; 
To ten-franc slabs of thin Swiss Cheese; 
To cute mam'selles in gay Paree, 
(A soldier's dream that could not be); 
It's not because we would forget, 
For dreams may teach us some regret, 
So lift the glass and drain it dry, — 
It's not adieu, — but plain " Goodbye." 



18 



WAR LOVERS 

Up around old Chateau-Thierry, 
Fere-en-Tardenois, the Vesle, 

He could write as swell a letter 
As a guy would want to mail. 

We were in the Argonne Forest 

And the gassy mustard air 
Only made him more poetic 

In his letters over there. 

How he'd paint a little cottage, 
Stick some roses in the yard, — 

Dream about when it was over, — 

Tell how years seemed long and hard! 

Now, the bloomin' war is over; 

Sure, his whole creation whirls 
When he thinks about his landing 

Face to face with all those girls. 



Ah, now, don't be worried, buddie, 
If you're in such a plight, 

You won't have to make a landing 
In the middle of the night, — 

For, I'll bet they're pretty nervous 
While they tremble thinkin' when 

They'll have to start explainin' 
To so dog-goned many men! 
19 



TO SLIM JIM,— 

Just him, 
And the swing of his bamboo cane, 
Sometimes " Stim," 
To the rest of them, 
When he comes to their thoughts again. 
Oh, his laugh was long 
Like a lilt of song, 
And many a maid in France 
Took to the likes of his airy sway, 
Laughed to his lips with her heart astray, 
Sobbing a bit when he marched away 
To thrill with the Soldier's Chance! 

It's him 
I'll remember when years grow dim, 
For a wine cup's brim 
Fit the smile of him 
When he lifted his glass with the best of them. 
I'd go anywhere 
If going there 
Could stir a bit of song, 
Leaving the lights of these wild, gay nights, 
Hiking again through a field of frights, 
Aching and seeing the same old sights 
To drink with Slim along. 



20 



NO MAN'S LAND 

I was a proud and happy soldier 

When I sailed for France, I know, 
They used to talk to me, 'bout gals I'd see 

And liquor everywhere I'd go. 
They said that Paris was a city 

Where they liked a soldier kid, 
And I surely liked the Army, 

But I'll tell you what they went and did: 

(Chorus) 
They laid a stretch of fields in front of me 

An' they called it No Man's Land; 
I knowed a better place I'd rather be 

Kinder South of No Man's Land, 
I slept in mud and tried to scratch 

While the whizbangs sung to me 
And in the grasses, oh, I dreamed of passes 

And the lasses in Paree. 
Then they dropped some bundles from the skies 

Just as big as they could be, 
And they splashed the mud into my eyes 

Then they quit feedin' me. 
Oh, they put some barbed wire up one night 
Just to hold my temper if I tried to fight, 

Oh, it was punk 

It stunk, just like a skunk, 
An' they called it No Man's Land. 



21 



AT THE DOUGHBOY RING 

There's a ringside rope and a ringside row 

And a scrap at the Cirque Paree, 
And the Gallery gab from the Olive Drab 

Gives a whoop for the referee; 
But the crab at the slab who is keeping the tab 

Is as grim as he used to be, 
And the fever comes from the long ago 

Like the voice of a pal to me. 

They are real straight stuff from a neck of wood 

In the good old U. S. A., 
And they shake their mitts like the scrappers could 

In the time of a bygone day; 
And the hood of one stood for a blow that was good, 

And we're in for a finish fray; 
And we stand afoot like the sportmen stood 

When a heavy would reel and sway. 
There's the stealth of a cat in their soldier feet, 

And they're built like the brawny bear; 
And their bodies are grimy with sweat and heat, 

And their eyes are like coals that glare — 
And they hammer and beat, and they rush up and 
meet, 

And they break, but they're always there, — 
And it's blood in the veins of a Homesick Pete 

When a scrap's on the Bill of Fare. 



WHEN THE ORDERS COME 

There's a boat a-ridin' anchor 

In the port of St. Nazaire, 
And her bow's a-facin' Westward 

For some good Atlantic air; 
You can have my whole durned outfit 

For I haven't got a care 
When a boat's a-loadin' cargo 

For a harbor over there. 

They can have the French they taught me 

As a bloomin' souvenir — 
I know another language 

That is sweeter to my ear; 
They can have their watered cognac 

And their old left-over beer, 
For we've finished up the business 

Till there ain't no liquor here. 

There's a Goddess in a harbor 

With a bugle at her lip 
And she blows the notes of Recall 

To a soldier laden ship, 
And my buddie's over waitin' 

With a bottle on his hip — 
And he's got it all protected 

If his happy foot should slip. 

They can tell Marie Louisa 

That I'm off to Sandy Hook 
That the lovin' ways she taught me 

Ain't so new to this old crook, — 
23 



That no seconds will be issued 
And she needn't come to look, 

'Cause the address ain't my address 
That I scribbled in her book. 

Oh, My Baby! I'm a-comin' 

An' I'll strut the Avenue, 
An' I'm just so happy, Honey, 

That I don't know what to do; 
Well, I'm ready for paradin' 

For I've seen the Heinies through, 
But I'll march at no attention 

When I lay my eyes on you. 



24 



JUNE 13, 1919: THE FINAL EDITION OF THE 
A. E. F. NUMBER OF "THE STARS AND STRIPES" 

When the last of troopin' transports 

Have split the marble foam 
And you soldier sportsmen wander 

Through the sporting sheets at home, 

Then you'll think of yellowed pages 

Where famous sporting names 
Got their first limelight ambition 

In soldier sports and games. 



25 



JOAN OF ARC 

The kiss the wind may bear will stir the tranquil leaf 
And lay it softly on the mounds we made; 

And we shall labor in the mart or bind the sheaf 
The while her spirit guards their quiet glade. 

And as the blood of them commingles with the soil, 
Where hers and theirs have fed the rose its hue, 

So will our own turn comrade with a waiting toil 
That needs our all to prove us worthy, too. 



26 



HEROES 

There's some things that's sure to linger 

In this memory of mine, 
So that when one points a finger 

Sayin', " I was up the line! " 
I can say to him, " By blazes, 

There's a pal of mine in France, 
An' he's pushin' up the daisies 

Where we made our last advance. 

: ' Yep, he had his share of Argonne 

An' a double dose o' mud, 
An' he's pulled his last of jargon 

'Bout the corned beef and the spud. 
But he never pulls no prattle 

Like some other fellows pull 
With about three words of battle 

An' the rest a line of bull. 

" He ain't sittin' there a-pawnin* 

All his soul for braver lies, 
That'll keep the kids a-yawnin' 

With the sandman at their eyes — 
Nope, he's layin' at attention, 

Done his last old hero strut, 
But I think The Book'll mention 

That he keeps his jawbones shut." 



27 



DAYBREAK AT LA VALBONNE 

Dawn after dawn has come from o'er the distant crests 
Of yonder rugged lines that are the Alps, and I 

Have watched the molten gold in opalescent nests 
Of grandeur there, — and softer moonlight gliding by. 

Nor yet in all the sky is there a cloud so meek 

In cumulous bepillowed strands that can compare 

Its purity with those white snows upon the peak 
That furtively aloof holds high dominion there. 

And in those dawns I have seen cities miles away 
So lying that the drowsy mists of morning still 

Enwrapped them in a darkened slumber while the day 
Outlined the silhouettes beyond the nearer hill. 

Then with a flare that throws a shaft of lurid glow 
Before it, comes the first red brilliance of the sun, 

And dim mists seem to melt into an orange flow 

Of sunlight, while the new dew drips where beams 
are spun. 

It seemed the very soul forgot the molded clay 

That soon will warp in Life's small span of Care, 
And in its wilder exultation tried to say, 

In some beyond I'll know the secret wonders there." 



28 



SMITTY'S CHRISTMAS AT LA VALBONNE 

Seemed like this Christmas mornin' 

My thoughts went o'er the foam 
To fumble in a stockin' 

A-hangin' there at home; 
Seemed like I seen the ashes 

Still smould'rin' in the grate 
Where embers painted pictures 

For kids that couldn't wait. 

Seemed like I seen the snowdrifts 

All heaped about the lawn 
An' shivered in the breeches 

That I was puttin' on; 
An' then I heard the children 

That barefoot down the street 
Came runnin' for the good things 

I alius got to eat. 

Seemed like I seen a mother 

Whose Santa Claus no more 
A-lookin' at some hos'ry 

She'd hung the night before, 
An' one's a-hangin' empty 

Till a great big shinin' tear 
Drops in that empty stockin' 

For her soldier over here. 

Then I walk into the village, 

Down here at La Valbonne, 
An' I never had no money 

To buy a thing my own, 
29 



An' I never had no package 

And didn't get no mail, 
An' I couldn't see no sunshine 

A-fallin' in my trail. 

Then I knowed that Christmas givin' 

Was what I missed the wust 
An' that longin' feelin' got me 

Until I thought I'd bust; 
For I hadn't sent no package 

With a German souvenir 
To say I felt the spirit 

Of the Christmas over here. 

An' then, — I seen some Frenchies 

So happy in a home 
That hadn't had no Christmas 

Until we had crossed the foam; 
Then I knowed the whole creation 

Back there in towns we lef 
Was happy with a present 

From the whole durned A. E. F. 



30 



IN PARTING 

Ah, France, we go, but will not soon forget 
The verdure of the hills we roamed with you; 

Some stronger bond beneath your flowers will yet 
Beholding charms to keep the friendship true. 

Some flush of youthful cheek, some sterner tear, 

Some heartaches that were shared awhile with you 

These hold the brotherhood you gave us here 
More sacred than a soldier's weak adieu. 

Ah, France, your verdure fields will always bring 

A softer hue to rose and violet, 
The which will lend a subtle charm to cling 

For each of us till neither can forget. 



3i 



HOMEWARD BOUND 

Song of the wonder wind, wooing me home, 

Whirling the blues and the greens of the sea, 

Mixing a marble that melts to a foam, 

Have you a word to be whispered to me? 

" She is pressing a kiss in the dewdrop's breath 

In the heart of a rose for you, 
That is longing to bleed 'neath a hero's foot 

When the soldiers are marching through." 



32 



FROM FRANCE 

When I am home again 

I'll build an open grate, 
And in the joyous pain 

Of dreams that linger late, 
I shall be back in France. 

For I am one that loved her lengthy lanes, 
The wanderings of Chance, 

The maidens by her roadside and the trains 
Of camions along the lime-pressed roads 
That groaned at lifting hills and leaden loads, 

And at my grate with fantasy aglow, 

How sweet 'twill be for you to know 
The France I love. 

But I am not at home again, 

There is no open grate, 
And longing breaths of empty pain 

That years necessitate 
Until I am at home. 

Yes, I am one that loved the bended elms 
Where Corot turned the loam 

To leafy dells that whispered realms 
On realms of rest and quiet, tranquil dream; 
But I am still in France, and things can't seem 

As I will have them then before my grate 

With you beside me listening as I prate 
The France I love. 



33 



IN THE AFTERMATH 

May Life give us no fame to go down in a book 

Where the eyes of the worldly shall read 
Of the years that we lived or the paths that we took 

Or the lessons the Youthful should heed; 
For the life of the heart is the book it would be 

With its aches and its fancies unsaid, 
And the readers would think as they opened to see 

It was written of them instead. 



34 



TROUBLE 

There ain't no troubles under the sun 
But what I've had 'em, every one; 
Sicknesses have come and went, — 
Money earned was money spent, — 
Girls I love have flung me down, 
Them I don't still hang around, — 
But I reckon, when I'm through 
I'll have grinned as much as you. 



35 



THE PALS OF YESTERYEAR 

Last night I sat in fancy with the pals of yesteryear, 
For many flickering flights of flame had brought their 

spirits near, 
And in the haze of cigarette, while embers fought the glow, 
A fitting memory set the scenes of days of long ago. 

They lie beneath the sod of France; they course some 

distant foam; 
They wander o'er the empty years and, longing, dream of 

home; 
They toil in field or factory, or, morbid, wan and blue, 
They quaff the cup of La Boheme as those who dream 

will do. 
And yet, they entered in, a crew of happy chaps, 
Their pilgrimage forgotten in the time that overlaps; 
And they were welcome guests, no hearth could e'er 

disown 
Who told the tale that comrades tell when comrades are 

alone. 



Tonight I am a distance from the pals of yesteryear — 

I wonder if their spirits call each other spirit near; 

I wonder if they try to cling to memory's lengthened 

chain 
That grows so heavy with a weight that drags me back 



again 



36 



CHRISTMAS OVER THERE 

I wonder how they're spending their Christmas over 

there, 
Without a khaki soldier to remind them of a care; 
With no one standing guard beside the old estaminet, 
And none to kid the kids along, still happy as they play. 

I suppose the madame's soufflet that teased the lazy flames 
Is hanging where it used to when she taught us Frenchy 

names; 
The pets are purring softly and the oilclothed table there 
Is waiting for the guests to come and leave the dishes bare. 

The padre's holding Christmas mass; the road is lined 

with teams, 
A crispy snow is sparkling in the wintry sunny gleams; 
And Jeannette, Marie and our Louise are dressed in gay 

array, 
A-teasing peasant laddies in an old familiar way. 

There must be some happy orphans whose parrains don't 

forget 
About the checks they promised that some are sending 

yet, 
But if Fate should send me back again across the sea apace, 
I think I'd choke with loneliness, completely out of place; 

For, it's a happy Christmas they're having over there, 
With everybody working for a France without a care, 
With everybody shouldering the tasks that Peace has 

made, 
With laughter mingling in the fields where we were on 

parade. 

37 



So, it doesn't make much difference if they never think of 

me 
As long as there are smiling lips to fit a cup of tea, 
As long as there are embers to paint a rosy glow 
And they can have a Christmas like the ones of long ago. 



38 



THE DEFEATED PACT 

We thought that it was finished when we laid our rifles 

down, 
When the bunting and the music gave the Olive Drab the 

town; 
We thought that we had planted in the corner of the heart 
A little share of glory in which all had had a part. 

But, now we know we didn't, and we know the fight's 

before, 
A fight that calls for courage and a fight that needs us 

more, — 
A fight for all we stood for in the slimy, dirty ooze, — 
For there never was a conquest a Yankee lad could lose. 

We've kinder hallowed horrors that we thought were best 

forgot, 
And we've thrown a little sunshine where sunshine never 

got,— 
But, now, we'd better tell them, better open up the heart, 
Better take the stump if needs be and give the wheels a 

start. 

When they make a scrap of paper of what we wrote in 

blood, 
It's time for showing mettle if the others sling their mud; 
They've called it idle dreaming, — get your facts down 

and rebut, 
And speak a double mouthful for the lads whose mouths 

are shut. 

39 



There's no Sunday-coated tourist can stand where we have 

stood 
And ever feel the horrors that we felt in any wood, — 
There's a bullet bitten crevice; but had they heard the hiss 
They wouldn't lend their sanction to the votes that hand 

us thisl 

It's the thing we know we fought for, every nation hand 
in hand, 

It's the thing that kept us going when we didn't under- 
stand; — 

So, take the stump if needs be and show what you can do, 

And spare no courage in you to see that Treaty through. 



40 



L'AUTOMNE 

When November comes to the France we knew 
And the fluttering leaf comes down, 

Methinks, it is tinged with the khaki, too, 
As it garbs the withering brown; 
And there's something there in the hallowed hue 
That will grip the heart when a leaf or two 

Comes idly fluttering down. 



4i 



YOU TELL 'IM 

Will you me the kindness do today 

This morning and inform 
The connaissance of Billie Lay 

Who was in uniform? 
He was si tall, si debonnaire, 

Si joli and si grand; 
He wore the hat the M. P.'s wear 

With red the little band. 

He wore the gay, the jolly homme, 

Who at me promised things; 
But Christmas gone, and he no come 

And nothing he not brings, 
He is not come, he is yet there, 

These sadness I relate. 
He was si tall, si debonnaire 

And what you call first straight. 

If him you know not at his name, 

And yet he pass along; 
You tell him n'est-ce pas the same 

Cylette has waited long. 
He were si tall, si debonnaire 

You connaitre him quick you meet, 
You tell him if he over there 

Cylette still his complete. 



42 



THE SCATTERED ARMY 

I wonder where the army is, — 

The one I used to know, — 
The guy that found a gal of his 

At every place we'd go, 
The chap that swapped his army clothes 

To get a dozen eggs, 
An' that lengthy, lazy feller 

With the arbitrerry legs! 

I wonder where the mule is at 

That Jimmy kep' in trim 
By groomin' with his campaign hat 

An' — What's become of him! 
An' where's " the top " and Slippery Sam 

An' other fellers now, 
The guy that et the Colonel's jam 

An' him that cooked the chow! 

An' where is Shorty Jones, today 

That sung them lovin' chants 
About his gal so far away 

When we was there in France? 
Oh, there's a lot of uniforms 

Still scattered on the street, 
But I never see a buddie's face 

In any that I meet. 

I s'pose that Ikey Epstein's got 

Each feller's last address, — 
He'd send 'em to me like as not 

If I should write, I guess, — 
43 



But Ikey was the chap that lent 
Some bokoo francs or so 

An' most of us can't write to him 
'Thout payin' what we owe. 



44 



EB'S FRENCH WIFE 

I reckon there is some that loved the lights of old Paree, 
Though laughter on its gilded streets could not appeal 

to me; 
I reckon there is some that think while at their daily toil 
They'd like another glimpse of what was once a sacred 

soil. 

Then, if they is, they ought to know the hero that I write, 
The one that's livin' in the house I'm passin' ev'ry night; 
For others never know'd it and she'd never let it out 
That she's a kind of hero that we never thought about. 

They say that she's a-tryin' hard to learn a lot of things, 
To wash the clothes an' sweep the house an' cook the stuff 

he brings, 
To learn to talk like we folks talk an' act like we folks do, 
An' be a better help to Eb than any that he knew. 

So, in the evenin's when I pass their simple little place 
I'm glad to see a pretty smile a-ling'rin' on her face, 
When she's a-standin' at the door just like as if she know'd 
The time is here for Eb to come a-whistlin' down the road. 

An' yet when he's a-strippin' fodder, workin' all the day, 
She does a lot of sobbin', so the nearest neighbors say, 
Fer some have come fer miles and miles to kinder comfort 

her 
An' none of them can understand just what she's cryin' 

fer. 

45 



It's me that knows she's dreamin' 'bout the lights along 

the Seine 
An' Bois Bologney gardens ther that she won't see again, 
An' sometimes she's a longin' for the Maries an' Lucettes 
An' friends that loves the hardest an' most easily forgets. 

Oh, I reckon there is some that loved the lights of old 

Paree, 
Although laughter on its gilded streets could not appeal 

to me; 
But I reckon she is one that loves the man she loves still 

more, 
An' she'd say " yes " to him again, just like she did before. 



46 



FIRELIGHT AND SHADDERS 

A Sequel to ME,— AN' WAR GOIN' ON 

Me! A-stretchin' my legs 

An' yawnin' at home! 

Me, a-stretchin' my legs at the firelight 

An' watchin' the shadders an' flames! 

Seems like I see the hills again, 

An' tiny little towns, 

An' here an' there a streak a-crawlin' 

An' crawlin' an' .crawlin' 

On a log of wood, 

Just like a caravan of olive drab! 

It's funny what a feller sees 
When he's stretchin' his legs 
An' watchin' the shadders 
Mixed in them flames! 

Seems like I see 

That column 

With the Capt'n there, 

An' hear them wagons rattlin' over them hills, — 

An' Lee's a-holdin' the pots an' pans 

That keep a-fallin' off the rollin' kitchen, 

An' Slim Jim a-stealin' the cooks' own doughnuts, 

An' somebody hollerin' " Fritz is up " 

Just to see Jake hang a bucket over his head! 

It's funny just how plain it is 

When I'm stretchin' my legs 

An' watchin' them shadders 

Mixed in the flames! 

47 



Seems like when them embers pop 

An' splutter out on Maggie's new carpets, 

An' the mattin' on the floor, — 

Seems like there's a war goin' on 

Right there in that big ol' grate! 

Land sakes, — 

Slim a-lammin' a hand grenade 

An' dodgin' down just in time, 

An' a skirmish line scattered all over the hill, 

An' them big boys bustin' right at 'em, 

An' them little spots of khaki still goin' on when the 

smoke's gone, 
An' here an' there a little lump of olive drab, 
Not many of 'em, — 
Jes' here an' there! 

A new hunk of wood, 
With little hitches of snow in its cracks, 
An' it crackles like Louie used to laugh, 
An' my shavin' water splutt'rin' in the can 
That looks like we was boilin' coffee again. 
Seems like I smell that corn and them green peas 
That was stole from the sergeant's mess, 
An' its four-off and two-on, 
In the four-off part of the night, 
With pots a-goin' 
An' rumors, 

Somewhere up in the little villages, 
An' laffter, 
An' snowin' outside, 

An' talkin' 'bout what we've been through 
An' the French girl next door bein' woke up in the night 
To sell some of her ma's milk, 

48 



An' little Fitz sayin' he don't never want to go home, 

An' Big Jim bustin' the door down 

After he's come in from pass, 

An' bein' put to bed gentle, 

An' the February winds hissin' 

An' spittin' sleet on the windows, 

An' Me, a-stretchin' my legs 

An' watchin' them flames. 

I reckon, 

There's a whole War 

An' its heartaches in a log fire; 

Seems like I understand pa's quietness more now, 

An' Maggie, — 

Well, I don't know as she'll ever understand 

Just why I'm sittin' here, — 

She never could see nothin' but lovin' an' romance 

In a fireplace, — 

An' there ain't nobody knows 

But the little pot, 

An' them logs, 

An' them embers! 

— When I'm stretchin' my legs, 

An' thinkin' 

An' watchin' 

The firelight 

An' them shadders. 



49 



THIRTY 

The reporters mark the finish of a story 
With a thirty on the sheet that ends a tale, 

And on Venus, well, they call it a dimension 

Of something, . . . I've forgotten where she's frail; 

And they tell me it's an age when all the ladies 
Stop and shiver just to think of all alone, 

So, they powder up their faces where the fade is 

And they wonder where the men are they have known. 

From my childhood, I was taught to think of thirty 
As the time declining years and age began, 

So I fell for Mary Schooldays, but her flirty 
Mother answered, " She's too young for you, — Old 
Man!" 

So when Mary passed her thirty and was older 

Well, I took some pity on her, yes, I did, 
; Won't you marry me? " I whispered, getting bolder, 
And she shivered, " Horrors, Jimmy, you're a kid! " 

You can call it a dimension if you want to, 
Say that women corner fellows all they can, 

But don't let the age of thirty ever haunt you 
It is just a part of childhood in a man! 



50 



THE STENOGRAPHER 

If you can hold the job and learn to like it, 

And swallow lots of things to get your speed; 
If you can see each little key and strike it 

And make them sizzle into words they need; 
If you will never leave a covered letter 

Or leave a musty spot upon the white, 
And with your speed grow even neater, better, 

And take a pride in all the things you write; 

If you can speed and not make speed your master, 

Or slowing down, do better work by that; 
If you can conquer all your dreams of " faster," 

And strike each letter full and flat; 
If you can see a bit of wonder work completed, 

And take a bit of pride in all you've done, 
And see it marked and penciled and depleted, 

And know you must rewrite it as you run; 

If initials of your name are on your papers 

Where all will learn to know you as they read, 
And there's something in the trademark of your capers 

While years have added neatness to your speed; 
If you can see the ribbon streaming, streaming, 

Beneath the keys that raise ambition's haunch, 
It won't be long before your work and dreaming 

Will make life broader than the keys you punch. 



5i 



THE CALL OF THE BETTER SELF 

If I would make you richer far than dreams 

E'er told you in their wild illusive spread, 
I'd lead you off in solitude, where beams 

No idle fantasy that Care is dead. 
I'd lead you to a spot your laughing muse 

Has never known and place within your hand 
Rare gems from which I'd will that you must choose 

Not all, but only one, and lo, you'd stand 
Like one the world calls " fool," and ask me, " Who 

Are you to bring the talents of my Youth? " 
I am your friend, your all, yourself still true; 

Though dormant I have seemed, I know the truth, 
For you were sleeping, too. Awake, for I 

Am what you thought was Care, and fearing ran 
To hide behind indulgences that lie 

In wait for you whom I would make a man. 



52 



AN EPISODE 

He has come back, — 

He, whose cup was brimming over 

With its dreams and love! 

He has come back to Her! 



How fervently their pens had scrawled the passion! 
How eagerly their lips had met again! 



They were together, 

Yet, they sat apart, 

Each thinking of something missing 

In the other's heart. 



He has gone because she does not love him; 
She has let him go because he loves no more. 



For ages they will sit apart 
Just dreaming things, 
Dreaming of Junes, — 
Junes that cannot come again. 
It is so strange to them, — 
This distance just across the street, 
Just from today to yesterday, — 
From June to June, 
It is so strange to them! 
53 



MONOPOLISTIC FANCIES 

I'd like to be the guy that gets 

The early morning mail 
That brings the stuff the printer sets 

That gets the writer's kale; 

I'd plagiarize and plagiarize; 

I'd write a book a day; 
I'd hire a lot of other guys 

To print the stuff I'd say; 

I'd open up a corner stand 

And fill up every shelf, 
And if no customers should land 

I'd read them all myself. 



54 



AFTERMATH 

There are so many sacred memories broken 
By those who did not know quite all we gave, 

There is so much so very lightly spoken 
That it is sometimes hard to be yet grave. 

There was so much we gave but for forgetting, 

So much that youthful hearts were filled with them, 

That we are sad to go along regretting 

The paths that teach the narrowness of men. 

But there is much to live until tomorrow, 
And many things to crumble into clay, 

And, so, the heart that felt its soldier sorrow 
Knows better when to sadden or be gay. 



55 



S. O. S. JOE 

When I got back to my Nellie 
And said, " It's all over and done, 

And the last Fritz in the Argonne 
Has shouldered his baggage and run.' 

D'ye think another guy's story, 

Three times more heroic than mine, 

Could take one-half of the glory 
That Nellie could make so divine? 

D'ye think that taking positions 
And rising one's life in a stunt 

Is equal to issuing ordnance 
About 40 miles from the front? 

D'ye think that opening boxes 
And writing out forms in a book 

Wasn't heroic and noble 

Compared to the hills they took? 

Well, you should a-heard my Nellie, 
When I came with a hero's grin — 
" Listen, Josephus, I'm working, 

And when are you gonna begin? " 



56 



BURNT FINGERS 

This Love is but a woman's game 
With tricks to help her win it, 

And he who will may find it tame 
With all her systems in it. 

But, oh, the man who finds the rule 
Though women don't discern it, 

He drowns within a siren's pool 
And loses love to learn it. 



57 



LILAC TIME 

When it's lilac time in Paris 
There is jasmine at her door, 

With a fragrance to embarrass 
All one's courage as before. 

But who thinks of Paris flowers 
With the jasmine at her door, 

With two lovers' moonlit hours 
And her door in Baltimore? 



SPRING'S USUAL 



Ah, oui, 
'Tis Spring' 



J. ID UJJllUg. 

And poets sing, ah, oui, they sing 
And sing like everything. 

Of peckerwood, of rippling brook, 
Of summer girls, an open book, 
Of long sweet sighs some lady took, 
Of these, ah, oui, we read in Spring 1 



But do not write a poem now, 
Oh, No! 

You couldn't sell it anyhow, 
Ah, no, alas, ah, no! 

For, oh, the secrets verse could tell 
Beneath crude lines of doggerel, 
Beneath the spots where raptures swell 
Where once the softer accents fell 
So helter-skelter and pell-mell! 

For while your careworn thoughts disperse 

And seek some lines like these, or worse, 

In which to let your soul emerse, 

The poets bite their pens, or curse, 

And think new thoughts for Christmas verse, 

To fill a fast depleting purse, 

Ah, oui, a fast depleting purse. 



59 



L'ENVOI 

The nights we spent 
Where the Boche flares lent 
Their red to the moonlit sky, 
Are now forgot 
And another spot 
Is luring our footsteps nigh; 
The hard heart thrills 
For the rookie drills 
Are things of a soldier past, 
And gleams of home 
From across the foam 
Are calling us all at last. 

When rifles rust 

And the dingy dust 

Collects on the I. D. R. 

Our thoughts will grope 

For the periscope 

With visions of fields afar, 

Of parts we played, 

And of pals we made, 

That drift through a golden dream 

That waits beyond 

In the halcyon 

Where memory reigns supreme. 



60 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

015 908 015 8 M 




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